


Not This Time.

by eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Other, i dont even say thancreds name its just him, implied blindcred, its a word vomit, this is just honestly an unedited musing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar/pseuds/eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've finally found him. And you've missed him so dreadfully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not This Time.

**Author's Note:**

> so i hit 3.1 last night and i was sitting there just DESPAIRING about my ship, so i wrote this and got it outta my system. unedited! if you've hit 3.1 literally at all you should be fine i dont think there are any spoilers in here at all in general so

It comes close every time.

Which irritates you to no end. It comes close, and so does he. It comes close enough to where you can smell him, the leather and the copper and the scent of pine trees which he uses to try to smother the rest. It doesn’t bother you; No, not at all. What bothers you is the way it comes and then it goes like it was never there at all, the way he comes _close_ and then he’s pulled away by one thing or another.

Or, it’s you that’s pulled away, and you’re not sure which is more infuriating. You lean in or he does, your hands come up to touch his face for the first time since you even found him, but they never make contact and you can never solidify his existence because something always gets in the way. Some cosmic fuckin’ disaster calls your attention and you don’t even have time to kiss him before you have to _go_.

But not this time.

Not this time, because you refuse to let that happen. You refuse to let him slip because you need this, you want this so bad and you’ve missed him so much. You have spent months and months suffering his loss and gods damn it all, you just want to be sure that he’s real and present, and not just some sad dream you’ve made up in your mind because you’ve _grieved_ him.

It’s quiet and it’s dark, the crickets are chirping. He stands outside, there’s smoke pouring from his nose and from his mouth, and the smell would be suffocating but from him, it’s intoxicating.

“It’s late.”

His head cocks in your direction, lending you his ear. He then nods when you say no more, “I know.”

It goes quiet again. When you fall silent, he turns his head back forward, as if assuming you’ve left. But you don’t; You stay put and you stare. You stare at all of him; How long his hair has gotten and how his skin has darkened visibly.

You come up behind him but you do it slowly, and he twists his head barely to listen to your footsteps. “You’re not going to bed?”

“No,” You swallow thickly. “I can’t sleep.”

He tosses burning embers to the ground quickly, exhaling one final breath of thick smoke in a soft chuckle. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? You can’t sleep, I can’t sleep. I’d say this conversation was fate.”

You don’t nod, you don’t agree. You only wrap your arms around his waist from behind and you just fucking hold him, you hold him and you press your palms against his chest and your cheek against his shoulder. You inhale, and you feel his hands take your wrists and you could almost whine because this is the first time you’ve so much as touched since he came home, home to you where he belongs.

He turns wordlessly, and he looks at you. Mayhap not quite at you; Mayhap just in your direction, just above your eyes. His hands come up to the sides of your neck and his thumbs rest on your cheeks, not petting, but not exactly unmoving. He’s just feeling you beneath his hands, but it’s as if he’s got a purpose to be doing so.

You’ve got a terrible feeling in your stomach now, but it’s not because of him. No, it’s not at all because of him. It’s because you fear being interrupted, you never want him to stop looking at you the way he is, touching you the way he is.

So you decide you’ve got to get in what you want to say.

But what you want to say isn’t saying anything at all. No, it’s standing on your toes and pressing your lips to his, and he inhales softly but sharply and you knew he wasn’t expecting it. But with the way he returns it, with the speed at which he pulls you in like he isn’t going to let you go, you know it doesn’t bother him. The opposite, in fact-- With the way he holds you, you’re near certain that he’s wanted this as bad as you have.

At least, that’s very much what you hope.

It’s not hungry, the way you kiss him and the way he kisses you. It’s just wanting; Not desire, not lust, but wanting. Missing. Even still, grieving. He tastes like tobacco and nicotine but you can’t _care_ , you _don’t care,_  why should you care when all that matters is that you’re doing this in the first place, finally after waiting too long.

And when you part it’s because your lungs are burning, your blood is boiling and your head is light. Your hands drop from his collar - you didn’t even know you’d held him firm there - to instead slide down his chest, resting them on his hips. His hands remain on your neck, palms flat to feel your pulse. Or mayhap that’s just what you’d like to think.

“Kiss me like that again and I’ll have a mind to do more to you.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” You reply, finally able to let yourself snark back at him. You don’t mention that you’d also like that, and you try to push the bit about liking it _very much_ out of your head. “I’ll have you know that I’m most certainly not some virgin maiden just waiting to be taken. You’ll have to work for it.”

“Is that so?” He asks, “Because I do recall the _last time_ we--”

“That doesn’t count!”


End file.
